Saturday, 8 June 2013

Cyprus. An autobiographical poem.


I spent a week in Cyprus,
well, two to be precise,
I went there for a holiday,
I thought it would be nice.
Well you do, don't you?

It says so in the brochures
and all the travel books
and I've always liked Tavernas
for the food, and for the cooks.
Ouzo's not bad either.

"Come to Aphrodite's Isle"
it really sounds romantic
but Aphrodite's long since gone.
I know that I'm pedantic
but romantic, it wasn't.

The place was disappointing,
I mean, it wasn't cheap;
the hotel was inferior
and the pool was far too deep.
I couldn't touch the bottom!
And when you're a non-swimmer
things like that are important!

And I didn't like the beaches
they were most of them man-made
all grey sand and pebbles
and without a spot of shade.
And covered in litter.

I suppose I should be honest;
it wasn't just for fun
I'd coughed up all that money
no, I'd come to see my son.
He was in hospital with two broken legs.

He lay there in this private room
his legs done up in plaster
Lke some great statue made of bronze
with legs of alabaster.
Sounds almost biblical, doesn't it?

And like some Eastern potentate
with slaves to do his will
it's "Bring me this" and "Fetch me that"
"Be nice to me, I'm ill"
Men! They're all the same.

But when he saw me walking in
He nearly died of shock.
He said, "Oh mum, you shouldn't have,"
or some such poppycock.
Well, he wasn't expecting me you see,
and we'd lost touch ages ago

I'm glad I went to Cyprus
though I didn't like the place
I reckon it was worth it for
the look on my son's face.

©  1991

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